'Regardless of fault,' Tomas said, 'we do not wish to further Alexander's knowledge of the ways of Amon. Whatever knowledge this archive contains, it is for us, not him.'
'And that's why we were fetching the girl,' I said. 'In the hope that she would be able to decipher the device, and further the cause of Morgan.'
'That was the Fratriarch's hope,' Tomas answered. 'We were opposed to it, but… he's the Fratriarch.'
'Was,' Isabel said. I rounded on her, but she held up her hands in peace. 'And shall always be. Settle, girl.'
'So why are you showing me this?'
'You should know what caused all of this. Barnabas's kidnapping, the murder of our brother Elias. Whatever is to come. We all felt that you should be aware of the cause.'
I nodded to myself. That was the reason they were willing to tell me, at least. I suspected there was more going on, more that I wasn't being told. I would speak to Simeon, later, and get his side of their disagreement.
'And why was Elias killed?' I asked. 'Did he have some secret knowledge of this device, or something?'
'We don't know,' Tomas answered, shaking his head slowly. 'Someone is warring against us. We assume they are aligned with the Betrayer. Perhaps trying to recover this device, or destroy it.'
'They're welcome to destroy it,' Isabel spat. 'I don't want this Scholar filth in my monastery.'
'If the Betrayer wants it destroyed, then isn't that reason enough to preserve it?' Tomas asked. Isabel took a step back, looking at him with confusion. He nodded at the question in her eyes. 'This is not as simple a question as I would like to believe, Isabel. The more troubles develop, the more questions I have. The less sure I am of my earlier vote.'
Isabel grimaced, then hefted the device with her still-invoked strength and placed it back on the platform. Without a signal that I saw, the platform folded intricately back into the floor. When it was smoothed away, Isabel turned to Tomas, fire in her eyes.
'Do not speak to me of complicated answers, Tomas. This course will see us all killed. Alexander fails us. Amon will lie to us. It is only in Morgan we can trust.'
'Morgan is dead, love,' Tomas answered, quietly. Isabel spat, then whirled and marched out of the room.
Tomas watched her go with sad eyes, then put a hand on my shoulder.
'How will we stand, if not together?' His voice was very quiet. 'We must speak of your duties, Paladin.'
'What would you have of me, Elder?'
He turned to me, his clear blue eyes wet and bright.
'The girl is in the hands of the Chanters,' he said, very carefully. 'What does she know?'
'She can chant a hell of an Unmaking, Elder. Beyond that,' I shrugged, 'that's what the Chanters are for, aren't they?'
'It matters to us, Eva. It is important. We cannot go back to the Library Desolate and simply withdraw another. Besides,' he drew close to me, 'this girl, she was with the Fratriarch when he was taken. Might have been involved in it.'
'Yes. I hope she can lead us to him.'
'Lead us? Perhaps. But we must know how it happened. Who is responsible. And worse, Eva… what did he say, there at the end? What if she escaped, ignored by whoever it was that took Barnabas. What does she know of why we summoned her? She surrendered to you, did she not? Why would she do that?'
'To preserve her fellow scions, I think. It isn't unreasonable.'
'That is not the action of a Scholar. Of a Betrayer. She must know something of the archive, something of Barnabas's reason for visiting the Library.'
'And if she does?' I asked.
'The Chanters will know. And then Alexander will know.'
I crossed my arms.
'Is it that important, Elder? That we endanger the search for the Fratriarch, perhaps cost him his life, to keep this thing hidden from Alexander? He is our god's brother, after all.'
'As was Amon.' He pulled away from me, shuffling slowly to the center of the floor, his head down. He traced a pattern in the dust with the toe of his old boot. 'It is important, Eva. It was the Fratriarch's will. He knew the danger, when he went to the Library alone, with only you as his guard. He knew, and accepted it.'
'What are you asking of me, Elder?'
'To do the Fratriarch's will. To obey him, as you swore to obey him.' He stopped his scuffling and looked up at me. His eyes were sad. 'Alexander has the girl. Bring her to us.'
* * *
It didn't really matter what I thought. The Elders were going to do what they were going to do. I had never understood Cult politics, the secrets we kept, the secrets the Healers kept from us. Never understood why either of the Cults put up with the bloody Amonites, either. There must be other ways to keep the city running, besides the Betrayer's slick invokations. Again, not my decision. Not my business. The Elders were going to do what they were going to do. And I was going to do what I was going to do.
I stopped in my rooms only long enough to shed the stiff ceremonial gear for a pair of jeans and a cotton T- shirt, boots for a loose pair of meditation slippers, then set out to roam the higher halls of the monastery. I was bone-tired, having been up all night searching the city for signs of the coldmen, then much of today standing watching over the dead body of Elias. But I couldn't sleep. Too much on my mind, and more on my heart.
My feet shushed along the cold slate floors of the monastery. The corridors were spottily lit, and the rooms were quiet. The monastery had been built to house two strong Arms of Paladins of the Champion, five hundred men, plus four times that number of support staff and lesser initiate warriors. Add in the Father Elders, the Fraternal leadership, the holy seers and anointed champions… nearly three thousand souls had called the monastery home, in comfort. Not a barracks, nor a mendicant's hovel, the monastery was the height of the holy order of Morgan's warrior church. Had been, and still was, though the Cult was dwindling.
There were fifty of us left. And most of that corps were aging Elders and middle-aged initiates who had never achieved the status of the blade. There were warriors among them, brothers-and sisters-atarms who were fit to guard the doors and march in the hallways, maybe even carry a charge in the field. But of the Paladins there was one. Me.
The corridors of the monastery twisted up, narrower and higher, the living chambers occasionally interrupted by empty defensive towers and unlit muster stations. The weapon racks were left empty. I wandered until my feet took me to the highest part of the egglike monastery. I went outside to stand on the Dominant, the narrow platform atop the egg that, in time of war, would serve as the Fratriarch's station.
The Dominant was a smooth plane of stone, about fifteen feet in diameter. The edge was sheer, without even a low wall to protect its occupants from tumbling off. The platform was a fixture on all Morganite strongholds across the peninsula, most of which now stood empty or in ruin. From this place, the master of the stronghold would direct the defenses when the enemies of Morgan and the Fraterdom laid siege. Open to the field of battle, and with a perfect view of the armies below, the master would stand in clear sight of the enemy. The only things protecting him were the hard invokations of Morgan, incanted by his personal guard of Paladins. Such was their power that their words could turn away bullistic shot, clouds of arrows, even the early cannonades that were just seeing use near the end of Morgan's life.
I sat on the edge of the platform and dangled my legs over, resting my heels against the smooth curve of the stone wall as it arched away. So easy to slide off. Slide off and down, to fly into the city without a sound. I leaned back on my palms and let the cold of the stone leech into my blood. The Strength of Morgan, safe in the city of Ash, had never seen siege. Probably never would. But the view from the Dominant was still spectacular.
The monastery sloped out and away like a black moon. Few of the windows were lit, fewer of the chimneys curled smoke. The monastery sat like an eclipse in the middle of a city of light. All around, bright towers of glass reached starward, their surfaces shot through with the witchlight of the Amonites. Even at this hour the streets were alive with traffic. The golden rails of the mono shimmered as the trains sped by. Crowds moved below in silence, too far away to hear. Life went on. The city of Ash went on.
I stood and stretched, pacing silently through the five stances of the Brother Betrayed. Circling the Dominant,
